Discourse with Oneself
I like the way you whine
but I'm wondering if you really intend to do it
all the time
Is there nothing I can offer you?
The food is hot
the dessert, quite cold
There's Schubert and Pink Floyd to choose from
And at the risk of sounding cliché
I could point out that the sky is reddish-gold,
the weather is Georgian beautiful
and the leaves are slowly falling
in a way you might find pleasing
There are children
and friendships
to amuse us
And I don't want to pressure you
or make you lose your groove
But I'm getting really sick of listening to Enya
all the goddamn time
-----------------------
All you fuckers seem confused on this minor point:
The beast is not dead.
The beast is not sleeping.
The beast is not even biding his time
And if you can't recognize him
with his big, friendly smile
and best casual wear
the beast don't mind.
He likes it when people fuck with him
'Cause the beast loves to have a
good story to tell
and he surely knows how to have a good time.
-----------------------
You are nothing without patience.
Do not attempt to prove otherwise.
Pay no attention to betrayals and insults,
manipulations and deceptions.
You have naught to show but fortitude
if the things which you could not write out
leave you huddled over the toilet bowl,
vomiting acid until consciousness fades.
Do not attempt to outsmart time.
What is a man without patience?
A disappointment, a travesty, the butt of a locker-room joke.
Above all, remain calm,
even if your fingers are ripped from their sockets,
one by one.
